"I tell you this, Mr. Furlong; all that has been done is my doing--I've humbugged you, sir,--_hum-bugged_. I've sold you--dead. I've pumped you, sir--all your electioneering bag of tricks, _bribery_ and all, exposed; and now go off to O'Grady, and tell him how the poor ignorant Irish have _done_ you; and see, Mr. Furlong," in a quiet under-tone, "if there's anything that either he or you don't like about the business, you shall have any satisfaction you like, and as often as you please." "I shall _conside'_ of that, sir," said Furlong, as he left the house, and entered the carriage, where he threw himself back in offended dignity, and soliloquised vows of vengeance. But the bumping of the carriage over a rough road disturbed the pleasing reveries of revenge, to awaken him to the more probable and less agreeable consequences likely to occur to himself for the blunder he had made; for, with all the puppy's self-sufficiency and conceit, he could not by any process of mental delusion conceal from himself the fact that he had been most tremendously _done_, and how his party would take it was a serious consideration. O'Grady, another horrid Irish squire--how should he face _him_? For a moment he thought it better to go back to Dublin, and he pulled the check-string--the carriage stopped--down went the front glass. "I say, coachman." "I'm not the coachman, sir." "Well, whoever you are----" "I'm the groom only, sir; for the coachman was----" "Sir, I don't want to know who you are, or about your affairs; I want you to listen to me--_cawn't_ you listen?" "Yes, sir." "Well, then--dwive to the village." "I thought it was to the Hall I was to dhrive, sir." "Do what you're told, sir--the village!" "What village, sir?" asked Mat, the groom, who knew well enough, but from Furlong's impertinence did not choose to understand anything gratuitously. "Why the village I came from yeste'day." "What village was that, sir?" "How stoopid you are!--the village the mail goes to." "Sure the mail goes to all the villages in Ireland, sir." "You pwovoking blockhead!--Good Heavens, how _stoopid_ you Iwish are!--the village that leads to Dublin." "'Faith they all lead to Dublin, sir." "Confound you--you must know!--the posting village, you know--that is, not the post town, if you know what a post town is." "To be sure I do, sir--where they sell blankets, you mane." "No--no--no! I want to go to the village where they keep post-chaises--now you know." "Faix, they have po'chayses in all the villages here; there's no betther accommodation for man or baste in the world than here, sir." Furlong was mute from downright vexation, till his rage got vent in an oath, another denunciation of Irish stupidity, and at last a declaration that the driver _must_ know the village. "How would I know it, sir, when you don't know it yourself?" asked the groom; "I suppose it has a name to it, and if you tell me that, I'll dhrive you there fast enough."